


Libertas Perfundet Omnia Luce

by tolstayas



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: All's well that ends well though, BIG content warning for internalised homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, and also pathologisation of homosexuality, there's a teensy bit of implied nsfw i guess, went ham after reading the book and impulse wrote this at midnight don't judge pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 05:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20040727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolstayas/pseuds/tolstayas
Summary: A record of strictly personal and secret matters as kept by Dr. John Seward, M.D., in the aftermath of the events of the novel.





	Libertas Perfundet Omnia Luce

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

_26 November, evening._

There are things that are not meant to be written in a diary, much less recorded on a phonograph and etched in black wax, like an epitaph might be etched into a tombstone. This is certainly of that variety of things. Yet I feel I must put it down somewhere, or it will consume me; it is the sort of feeling that clamors to be let out at the most inopportune of moments, which, in this case, can be said of any moment at all.

It is irksome to me to write my diary by hand, yet I cannot bear even to murmur this dark thing with my voice. Is it for fear that someone might hear me, or perhaps that the reality of it might strike me too brutally? In any case I will burn these pages as soon as I have written it all out; it is a sort of catharsis. Some part of me, the part which would have been superstitious were I not a man of science, hopes that this strange ritual might cure me. I would not go so far as to call this a cure; but I fear I may go mad if I do not do something about it, and so I have chosen to write.

I have always thought there must be something of the madman in all these doctors, myself included, who have chosen to specialise in the diseases of the mind; a sort of morbid fascination with that which we may never consciously admit we recognise in ourselves. My own illness is a chronic one, though indeed I had thought it long gone until very recently. I had almost grown accustomed to it, I remember, during its first attacks many years ago; and I had quite resigned myself to its disappearance almost as one cheerfully concludes, upon waking up one morning free of headache or fever, that one has no longer got a cold.

Now that it is returned I cannot deny that I am decidedly terrified. It is one thing to have suffered from an episode of some terrible disease, and come through successfully with the restored strength and vivacity of a healthy individual; then one might go on living normally, as if nothing of the sort had ever occurred. But it is quite another thing to realise, not only that the illness has returned in very much the same form as in its first instance, but that it may never have left, and only been dormant for a long time; and to infer therefore that the disease with which one is afflicted might well be incurable, and that one may suffer - not constantly, but in attacks and bursts and dreadful episodes - from this same fearful illness for the rest of one's life.

This is the closest analogy which I can draw to my current state. It only redoubled the horror of that ordeal so recently resolved; how could I outwardly face, with the neccessary bravery, the return of a medieval monster; when inwardly I was struggling, like any of the half-sane men in this madhouse, with the resurgence of a private monster of my own from beyond the forests of my mind?

But enough of this speaking in metaphors. If I am not direct with myself this is only escapism and not catharsis at all. It is not as if any eyes but mine should ever fall upon these words. There is no danger. I write this to reassure myself; if my hands began to shake I should hardly be surprised.

I am a good Christian, or I hope that I am, and try to be so every day of my life; and an honest, upstanding man who has loved a good, pure woman, nobly and tragically. Yet -

No, I cannot begin by self-justification. I cannot be anything but brutal with myself now. I must start again, yes, from the beginning.

The beginning, so far as I remember, was at Amsterdam.

Sometimes, when I reflect upon my younger days, I smile to think that I must have been a positively insufferable student; nearly as eager to impress my teachers as I was to learn as much as possible from them, I could never pass up the chance to badger, bother and ask difficult questions whenever the opportunity arose. In fact, I went quite out of my way to do so. From many, if not the majority, of my teachers, I was met with understandable irritation; that is, until I went to Amsterdam.

Van Helsing, being the man he is, was delighted with me. He tried and failed to hide his preference for me over his other pupils; but their jealousy amounted to nothing for me, so long as I was in his graces. I remember a few months of absolute bliss - during which I drifted like a gliding bird over the concerns of everyday life, and thought only of my studies, and my books, and the hours I spent in his company. Of course bliss like that could not last; it was only a few months before this - illness, or whatever I may call it - began to set in.

I had until then respected the Professor with a kind of holy reverence; but now I found myself - I dread to write it, but I must, I must - regarding him with diabolical passion. It was my dreams which first alerted me to the danger into which I had fallen, dreams which I do not dare to speak of in any detail, even if only to myself. But the dreams were not the half of it. I had always looked forward to the hours we spent together with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity; but now I ached for him, basely and desperately, at every waking moment. In his presence my eyes drifted to his lips, his neck, and his rough hands; the lightest touch by the latter inspired in me a physical reaction which, in conjunction with the unspeakable shame that followed, left my face red and burning. I was lucky that my studies remained deeply fascinating to me, and that I was not entirely compromised; still, I often found myself not quite present in lectures, half of my mind removed to some remote fantasy-world which I dread now almost more than Hell itself.

The episode of the gangrenous wound, which he so loves to remind me of, left me feeling at once like a knight who had served his king with honour through the flames of the battlefield; and like a man who had, to quote Coleridge, drunk the milk of paradise - if only by pressing my lips to his skin. Shortly after that event, if I remember correctly, I wrote him a frightfully embarrasing letter, in which I poured out my heart to him; thankfully I never worked up the courage to post it, but I couldn't bear to burn it either. I am sure that I could still find it, somewhere between the pages of one of my old medical textbooks. I have not gone looking for it, being too afraid to rediscover its contents. I am ever thankful that even then I was not senseless enough to put any of this down in my diary, and I write therefore from memory.

I have read and heard of madmen of my description, but never dared to take any on as patients, for reasons which at this point are surely obvious. Perhaps were I not such a coward I should have attempted it, and then I might know better how to proceed with my own case. As it is, I can find no way forward.

These are the simple facts of the case: following the Professor's arrival and subsequent long stay in London; and having been once again in a situation in which I was liable to see him and speak to him nearly every day; and being, just as before, more clearly in his confidence and even his affections than anyone else in our little group... I am experiencing a resurgence in my previous illness.

The effect was not immediate. My emotions were, at the time of his arrival, still dominated by poor Miss Lucy, who was of course at the forefront of all of our considerations at the time. But gradually, as I recovered from her refusal of my proposal and learned to love her only like a dear sister or the closest of friends, I began to feel more free in my affections. It was just prior to her death, during those short, hopeful days preceding the horrible end, that I felt the first stirrings of my old attachment to the Professor.

He is older now, yes, but not weakened by the years; and his mind is the same as ever, that brilliant mind at once intuitive and analytical, by turns sympathetic and critical, which secures him - to me at least - a place among the very best of men. I do not propose to condemn all that I feel for him, for I still have in my heart the deep respect of the pupil, the boundless trust of the colleague, and the warm love of the old friend, which are the noblest things I know. Yet among them there is this beastly thing that I have found impossible to drive away...

Sometimes a dark part of me wonders if he may not be afflicted with the same horrid malady as I, for once at the Westenra house, when he woke me for my vigil, he told me, with a soft look in his eye, that I was "still beautiful as the day I first see you" - but that might only be some idiosyncrasy of the language, such as he is wont to produce; and several times as we sat together discussing a topic of particularly morbid or frightening nature, or when we sat, for instance, at poor, poor Lucy's deathbed, he reached out and took my hand in his, with an unimaginable tenderness. But the manners of men are different where he is from, and clearly he wanted only to comfort me, and perhaps to reassure himself too; under such circumstances it can hardly be considered abnormal.

No, I do him injustice. His intentions are never anything but noble; if I have ever doubted it he has always proved himself to me. He was certainly wonderfully comforting to me, and but for this private torment I am eternally grateful that he agreed to do so much for me and for all of us here; we should have been so dreadfully confused and afraid, had we been without him.

But what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? I yearn to go to visit him at Amsterdam, but I fear that my purposes would be far from justifiable in such a state. Oh God! I dread madness all the more that I have come to understand it so well. Can anything save me still? If I could work up the nerve I am sure the Professor would do all he could to help me, without any judgement or danger to myself. This is the only solution I can think of. But how could I - how could I be frank with him, when it's him after all, and it's always been him!

I do poor, dear Lucy's memory a great dishonour to write this, and I beg her to forgive me, for I am not deserving of the graces she offered me even in refusing me - but I swear that the thought of opening my heart to Dr. Van Helsing makes me tremble with all the same passion and anxiety as, only six months ago, the thought of asking for her hand had done. God, that I am glad she refused me, for had she accepted me I could not stand to live with the guilt of having strayed in my affections, and in such a manner!

_Later._

I cannot endure this any longer. I fear for my sanity. I will telegraph to the Professor tomorrow and ask him to receive me and give me his counsel as plainly as possible. Now, I must try to sleep.

_27 November, evening._

I have not had the nerve to do it. Perhaps tomorrow. I must do it even against my own will, for I fear that the illness has some hold on me, which prevents me from doing what I know is necessary. I have not yet burned this shameful record, for I intend to give it to the Professor as a record of truth, if words should fail me. Once he has seen it and made what use of it he can, I will make certain it is destroyed.

TELEGRAM, SEWARD, LONDON,  
TO VAN HELSING, AMSTERDAM  
28 November - In Amsterdam this afternoon. Must speak with you in private. Matter personal & clinical.  
_John Seward_

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

_28 November, morning._

I write from the train; today as soon as I awakened and before I could hesitate again, I telegraphed to the Professor, and have thus cornered myself into meeting with him. I have nothing to do on the train; I have opened a newspaper in front of me, to keep up appearances, but in truth I am only waiting, with the fearful trepidation of a prisoner who will soon be sent to the gallows.

_28-29 November, close to midnight. Amsterdam._

It is very late, yet I must get everything down before I sleep, lest I should wake tomorrow morning and think it all just another dream...!

At three o'clock, having arrived in Amsterdam, I called on the Professor; he let me into his office, which I remembered distinctly from my student days. Being nearly too nervous to say anything, I spoke for a while of nothing, of idle things; but he saw through me as he always has, and said, "Friend John, something bother you, I can see; you must not hide from me what it is." I knew I could not lie or conceal anything from him, for he is more lucid than anyone; and so I began to beg him not to be offended, or to think me a monster, or some such thing, at which point he took my hand in his in that way I knew so well - which almost made it worse, for I could only think of the way he would draw his hand away as if burned when he heard the truth. He seemed indignant at my supplication and said: "It is not my manner, dear friend, to be offend at the things others say; and on you I can look only with kindness, never with hate. I promise you, I am not so easy repulsed; only tell."

I knew I must, and so I began to speak. I cannot recall my exact words, for the rush of emotion I felt at the time has clouded my memory. Yet I told him all, and to my surprise he didn't loosen his comforting hold on my hand, but looked at me with the kindest, most pitying eyes I have ever seen; and I saw that he was true to his promise. I gave him also this diary, lest I should leave anything out; which he read with attention as I watched, close to tears, and waited for his diagnosis as a guilty man waits for the verdict of the judge.

Once he had set down my diary he smiled - smiled! - a sad, gentle sort of smile, and then looked searchingly into my face for a long time, so intensely that he seemed to be looking into my soul; and after a long silence he spoke, his voice thick with emotion.

"John," he said, and he said it so softly and reverently that it sounded almost like a prayer; "You have much suffering, and my heart is full of pity for you, for you are a good man, and what you have suffer is from ignorance of others and not from sin of yours. You know that an open mind is to me primordial over all other qualities, and I have struggle to keep my mind free from the prejudices and judgements of others. It is only in this way that I have understood more than some of my colleagues. I know that you are capable of this too, and always have been; but you are weight by the considerations of others and must struggle a while still, before you find your freedom. Do you understand?"

I was astonished to hear this familiar drift from him after such a confession, and began to feel almost patronised by that soft voice, those pitying eyes; I said, "I beg you not to be cryptic with me, Professor; I am desperate, and ready to hear the truth, however cruel it might be. I came to you because I knew you would not conceal anything from me, even if everything were at stake." My voice was shaking a little and I strained to keep it level. "If there is a struggle to be had I will fight to the death, but you must tell me what to do, otherwise I am lost."

"You are far from lost." He said this firmly, almost angrily, as if my desperation irritated him. "We are in utmost clinical secret now; I will speak frankly, if I may." I nodded, bracing myself for a blow; it did not come. Instead, he said: "I cannot reveal much, but I can tell you that you are not the only one of mine pupils I have given counsel to on such matters."

An incomprehensible mixture of relief, terror, and jealousy rushed through me. He went on: "I admit you are the only one who - well, you are unique in many ways. You are the only one who has choose, ah, myself, as your point of interest." He was clearly embarrassed by this and I blushed hotly. "And the only one I know for so long time. But I have the experience with similar cases. And if I may be very frank - you will forgive me - I have also the personal experience of the struggle you are in now. I fought it too, many years ago."

I almost refused to believe the implication of his words. That I had suspected it earlier did not lessen the force of the revelation, and I felt as if I were being swept out to sea by impossible currents.

"Do not look so shocked, mine friend. You are hardly the imperceptive man, and I read in your diary that you have seen my behaviour to you." I could not speak, and only waited for him to continue; he saw this, and seemed to take pity on me. "I do not mean to frighten you. I say this only to mean that I understand you. There is hope, much hope, and not so much terrible things as you imagine it. I will help you. As before, I need your trust, and I need you to believe. Will you grant me that, friend?" I nodded solemnly. "Good. First I need you to believe that you are not mad, or anyhow afflicted with some illness of the brain. I will explain all in time." I found this difficult to accept, since I had convinced myself that it was so, but I nodded again, knowing the proof would come later. "Excellent. I know that you doubt still, but you must give me your trust. I need you also to believe - this will be a difficult thing, I suspect, knowing your nature, but I must require it - I need you to believe that this state you are in is absolute natural, and not in any manner sinful or, in fact, diabolical, as you were like to describe it."

At this I gaped, and after a moment, having regained the power of speech which the first shock had removed from me, I moved to object: "Professor - you cannot expect - you don't truly - you know as well as I do that your religion, like mine, condemns it!"

Now the Professor became quite animated, in a mood I recognised from certain lectures, when some student or other would quote from a discredited scholar or cite a popular scientific myth in defense of some idea or other. He went into a long tirade, which I cannot recall well enough to set down accurately, concerning the mistranslation of the Bible, and the misconduct of the Vatican, and the misconceptions of society, and concluded quite irately that what he called my mental self-flagellation was not simply but doubly, in fact triply unnecessary and counter-productive, and that the only way to the truth was through absolute openness of mind and faith in the noble intent of God as reflected in all of His Creation. One thing he said I remember quite clearly: "I am a man of faith," he said, "but I am not a blind one."

To me this speech was most surprising, but I imagine that to his fellow Catholics it would have seemed no less than blasphemous. I said as much to him; he only shook his head.

"I do not make allies with systems of belief, much less with systems of power. You know that always I am devoted only to the truth." This I felt I could accept, and gradually the whole idea seemed more sensible to me. He gave me time to mull it over until finally I was ready to hear his explanation, and asked: "If I am neither a madman nor a sinner, what, then, am I truly?"

"You are a good man in a bad world," he replied, and his face grew sad and strained. "I have watch too many like you pushed away from life, into madness or prison or death, for reasons like yours; the world has lose enough and more men like you. Forgive me if I am morbid, but I have known cases they go very ill... Friend John," he said, with a sudden extreme earnestness, "I will do anything in my power as to protect you from the harm that can come in such cases. I promise you will be safe. But you must trust me."

Knowing his ways, I promised him my absolute trust; at which point he began to explain. His explanation was deeply shocking to me at first, but his passion in the telling of it moved me very much, and I began, I think, to accept it. He told me of the history of men who felt such things as I do, among the pagan Greeks and Romans and the great civilisations of China and India. But he spoke of Christians, too, from the early days, and of the way certain texts had been manipulated, certain hateful thoughts fuelled, and certain beliefs set in stone as tools of power and control. He told me of the geniuses and noblemen of all past generations, of their passions and secret loves, their hidden letters of which historians never speak. I felt my heart swell, with an impassioned, pure, noble love for this man whose boundless search for the truth had never once faltered in all the years I had known him. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

Finally his lecture came to an end and he saw how deeply moved I was by his words. Perhaps fearing to startle me, he asked very gently if he could take my hands in his; and when I nodded he did, and said that I had always been the best of pupils and the most beloved of friends, and that though he had never imagined it while I was his student, now that we were on equal footing and working so closely together, he felt a more powerful affection for me than he had felt for anyone in a very long time. I was nearly in hysterics by this point, and crying quite freely, which he allowed me to do for as long as I needed, and I thank him for it; for few other men understand what it is to fear and hate something of oneself with such absolute revulsion as I have done for the past several weeks.

When I had somewhat recovered my bearings he asked me in a doctor's voice to tell him how I felt; he said it was important to be sincere about these things, even if in secret, for he saw how it had eaten away at me to keep my feelings to myself. So I explained, not without significant embarrassment, the deep love his speech had inspired in me, and the force of emotion I had felt over the whole of our conversation which had finally moved me to tears, both of which he understood immediately, and without asking for any more detail than I freely gave; and indeed I did feel relieved afterwards, and grateful to him for it.

He seemed then to be hesitating as to whether or not to say something; and I, not wishing to leave anything unsaid, asked him what it was. He looked quite severe, which frightened me a little, and said: "It is - a personal request, really, but I must be sure not to shock you. You have been too much overwhelmed these past hours; it is not healthy for a man. It can wait." When I insisted, saying he had done much for me already, and that I would not be at ease if I could not repay him in any way he asked, he sighed. "I fear you are underestimating the thing I want - I really feel that it is better to wait until you have settle the mind. But if you insist I will say it, and you will decide, and tell me so if you need time, or if you prefer never to speak of it again, and I will respect what you say. You are very precious to me, and I would not want you to think on me as try to get my will from you -"

At this I interrupted him, for the Professor is never normally so hesitant about his requests, if he thinks them important; and I asked him quite bluntly to tell me what it was, and not to leave me hanging in such an anxious way.

So he took in a breath and said very quietly: "Friend, I was wanting to ask if I might kiss you."

I was perhaps less surprised than I should have been, but considering all he had said before this was hardly the most shocking thing he could have done. I knew, of course, that he probably did not mean those chaste kisses of the cheeks which the French practise, or the kiss on the forehead which he had allowed to Lord Godalming on that dreadful, fateful day; he meant the kiss of the lover, the very kiss which my burning imagination had enacted and reenacted in my dreams for nights on end. I remembered those things he had said - his comments about his behaviour to me, his profound affection for me - and felt at once more safe and more vulnerable than I have ever felt, I think, in the whole of my life. My heartbeat hammered against my ribcage like the rain drumming on the window-panes during a thunderstorm.

"You may," I said, just as quietly.

This was not what he had expected, and I took a sort of delight in knowing that he had not been completely accurate in his analysis of me; and the blush that came to his cheeks then filled my heart with tenderness, for I was not used to seeing him so disarmed, his usual confidence and self-mastery gone, replaced by a look of almost childish wonder.

"You are sure?"

I nodded assent, and felt his hands reach out to hold my face, and heard him whisper something softly, under his breath - which could have been "beautiful", or perhaps something else entirely, something in his native tongue.

And then his kiss was on my lips. He was very still for a long moment, as if reluctant to break the spell of silence that held us in its sweet embrace; and when he finally broke away his eyes were dark with emotion, and his hands were still cupping the sides of my face. For me it was as if floodgates had been opened somewhere deep inside my heart. I felt that I could not bear to be separated from him, not even by a few inches of empty space; I pressed my lips to his and kissed him passionately, as I had imagined doing countless times, my hands wrapping around the back of his neck.

By this time we had been talking for hours, and not long afterwards we heard the dinner-bell downstairs; we hastily disentangled ourselves and left his office together, smiling a little, conspiratorial sort of smile to each other as we made our way to the dining-room.

At dinner he was genial, and made me promise to stay in Amsterdam at least a week, for he had books to show me, and colleagues to introduce me to; and the glint in his eye when I agreed to stay made me positively blush.

Even now, in my own room, without his confident look to reassure me, I feel strangely free.


End file.
